It was the twenty-third of June, with a cloudy sky outside. Jack Porter was sitting at a desk inside his hotel room. A half empty bottle of alcohol sat on the desk beside him. He looked depressed, and rather drunk. He was holding a book in his hands, the first half of it bent back behind it, so that it didn’t block the light from page thirty-four. In an instant he stood up and threw the book at away at the floor, letting out an angry murmur. Agitation clear on his face. He ran his fingers through his hair and took two long breaths. Then he turned and walked out the door. “Never mind.” “I know.”